Ink, Paper, Fire
by Dead Poet
Summary: A series of drabbles and short oneshots featuring everyone's favorite fire eater. Expect healthy doses of angst with some humor and possibly romance thrown in for good measure. WARNING: Spoilers for both Inkheart and Inkspell are likely to pop up!
1. More Like an Ending

**Author's Note: **These drabbles were/are being written for the Fanfic100 challenge over at Livejournal. In case you're not familiar with Fanfic100, the basic premise is that authors claim a particular fandom--this can be a general fandom (i.e. Star Wars), a character, a pairing, a group of characters, and so on--then they write 100 fics for their fandom, based on a list of 95 prompt words (the other 5 are writer's choice).

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. Sadness.

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**Prompt #1: Beginnings**

Despair had grown tiresome. He had decided to give optimism a try.

So it was, as he shuffled along the crowded sidewalk of a noisy city, that he told himself, _"This is a new beginning. Yes, that's what it is. The beginning of a whole new chapter of your life." _

He was staring at the cracks in the sidewalk as he trudged onward--a bad habit when they were so crowded. Inevitably, he had bumped into someone.

He looked up--into eyes the color of chocolate, set in a radiant face, framed by hair of ebony. The woman smiled warmly and whispered an apology before stepping past him and continuing on her way.

He stood watching her, for a moment.

_It's a new beginning. _

Why, then, did it feel more like an ending?


	2. In the Middle

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. I appreciate your condolences.

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**Prompt #2: Middles**

In the middle of the night, he sat in the middle of an arch formed by the branches of two large oak trees, in the middle of another pointless argument with himself.

He already knew what he was going to do. Why on earth did his conscience insist on continuing to incite debate?

_Because you know what you're going to do. You know _precisely_ what you're going to do. _

Oh, right. That.

He leaned back against the trunk of one of the trees and sighed.

_You know, for someone who never wanted to get in the middle of things-- _

He could have laughed.

He didn't.


	3. Ends and Means

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. Or am I? raises eyebrows

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**Prompt #3: Ends**

Ends: Home.

Means: Betrayal.

Ends: Finally getting back to where I belong, seeing my wife and daughters again.

Means: Putting an innocent little girl in the hands of an evil, heartless, cruel man.

Ends: My happiness.

Means: Her terror.

Ends: Putting a stop to my years of suffering.

Means: Bringing a start to hers.

Ends: My greatest dream come true.

Means: Her worst nightmares brought to life.

Ends: Returning to everyone and everything I love.

Means: Taking her from everyone and everything she loves.

Ends: My escape.

Means: Her captivity.

Ends: My life.

Means: Hers.

Ends: Justified.

Means: Justifiable.

Right?


	4. Keep Your Insides In

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. Yet...

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**Prompt #4: Insides**

Emotions are like organs. Like lungs, livers, hearts. They belong on the inside. No good has ever come of letting your insides out.

Unfortunately, unlike organs, emotions are not always content to stay where they belong. They have a troublesome tendency to claw their way to the surface and try to sneak out onto your face, into your words, your eyes...

They are traitors, constantly threatening to give you away.

They are dangerous.

Happiness. Sadness. Not one of them is safe. But most hazardous of all is love.

Love cannot bear captivity. And so he must escape before it does.


	5. Warning Labels

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. But I i am /i her evil twin! Mwahaha! ahem Ok, not really. sigh

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**Prompt #5: Outsides**

Books, he had discovered, were a lot like people. Their outsides rarely told you much about their insides. Like the book he held in his hands now, as he crouched in the moonlight beside the little girl's bed.

It's simple, unadorned, silvery-green cover gave no hint at what it contained. It seemed odd for a world such as this, that seemed to label everything.

He could just imagine one of their big, red labels plastered on the cover..

_WARNING: This book contains darkness, evil, violence, injustice, all of your mistakes, your failures, your fears, your death-- _

He hated warning labels.

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**Author's Note:** I am aware that, at the specific point in the story where I have set this drabble, he does not yet know of his death in the book. But he's speculating, and it seems a reasonable speculation. 


	6. I Thought We Had a Date

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. I appreciate your condolences.

**Author's Note:** For some reason, this whole event just fascinates me. Expect to see it pop up again.

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**Prompt #6: Hours**

Dustfinger sighed as he cast a glance skyward, toward the sun, wondering precisely how long he had been waiting.

"It's not a good time," Silvertongue had told him we'd he'd knocked on the book-binder's door the previous night. "Why don't you come back tomorrow. Sometime after noon."

And so he had done, only to find no car in the driveway and no answer at the door.

_"So we'll wait," _he had said to himself, taking a seat on the front porch steps. Sure he would be back soon...

But that had been hours ago. Hours during which he had watched the sun sink slowly in the sky--and his heart along with it.

By now he was quite tired of waiting, more than a bit frustrated, and ravenously hungry. He glanced back at the door--or more specifically the lock--as a slightly shady solution presented itself.

Silvertongue wouldn't be at all happy if he caught him, but so what? Then they would be even.

He allowed himself a small, triumphant smile as the lock clicked and he opened the door.

The smile vanished as he stood at the threshold, staring at the bookshelves that stood in the living room.

They were empty.


	7. Built On Fear

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. But you can send me fan-mail anyway!

**Author's Note:** Dustfinger and I seem to agree on this subject...

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**Prompt #7: Days**

He had always preferred night, but in this world, the days were nearly unbearable.

During the night, he could sit amongst this world's few small, silent trees, close his eyes, and listen to the quiet sounds of darkness. And for a time, he could almost forget.

And then the world awoke. And the moment it awoke, it began moving, it's people rushing everywhere, as if Death itself were on their heals, and they feared it would catch them if they didn't hurry.

And all the while there was noise--useless, senseless noise. It seemed these people were terrified of silence, as well.

_How appropriate _he thought. _A coward trapped in a world built on fear. _


	8. Welcome Home

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. No, no. I'm... Henry the Eighth, I am! Henry the Eight, I am, I am-- hangs head Sorry...

**Author's Note:** My inner muse had entirely too much fun with the last line of this fic, so I've included an alternate ending.

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**Prompt #8: Weeks**

She ran to him, hugged him, kissed him. Then slapped him.

"Eight weeks," she said, her voice low. "I thought you'd gotten yourself killed this time."

And with that she turned and marched back to the house. He sighed as he watched her go. Eight weeks...

_You're a fool, Dustfinger. _

Hanging his head, he made his way to the house, and stopped in the doorway, almost as if he were waiting for an invitation to come in. _A stranger in my own home... _

He watched as she tended to the pot hanging over the fire, searching for words to break the silence.

He wanted to tell her how much he had missed her, but the words sounded hollow. If he'd missed her so much, why had he stayed away?

He wanted to say he was sorry, but he hated apologies. What good was being sorry?

He wanted to promise her he'd never leave again, but that was a lie. Why make a promise he knew he couldn't keep?

"I brought you something..."

**Alternate Ending:**

"You know," he said, "that kind of turned me on. I think you should hit me more often."


	9. Sometimes

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. I am, in fact, her long-lost daughter... who she doesn't know about... and never had.

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**Prompt #9: Months**

Sometimes the months seemed to be creeping by so slowly he could hardly stand it.

And sometimes they seemed to be rushing past far too quickly.

Sometimes, when she placed a hand to her ever-expanding belly and smiled, he smiled with her, sharing her happiness.

And sometimes he faithfully echoed her smile, though he felt more like screaming.

Sometimes, as he awaited the birth of his child, he felt as though he were waiting for his own life to truly begin.

And sometimes he felt like he was awaiting its end.

Sometimes she gazed at the little houses in the hills with their little gardens, inhabited by happy little families with a look in her eyes that said, as clearly as words, "I want that."

And sometimes he turned away so that she wouldn't see his gaze, which said, just as clearly, "I don't."

Sometimes he felt certain that, in spite of all his doubts, he would be a good father.

And sometimes he knew better.

Sometimes, as he awaited the birth of his child, he felt as though he were waiting for his own life to truly begin.

And sometimes he felt like he was awaiting its end.

Sometimes she gazed at the little houses in hills inhabited by little families with a look in her eyes that said, as clearly as words, "I want that."

And sometimes he turned away so that she wouldn't see his gaze, which said, just as clearly, "I don't."

Sometimes he felt certain that, in spite of all his doubts, he would be a good father.

And sometimes he knew better.

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**A/N: **Sweet gooey cinnamon rolls, Batman! It's been forever and a day since I updated! And I am oh-so-far behind on the posting of my wee ickle drabbles. Oi! So many rabid plot bunnies for so many fandoms all hippity-hopping around my wee little noggin, battling for supremecy. Downright inundated, I am. But here I am, catching up on the posting. And hopefully doing some more writing, once I wrangle some of these other bunnies...


	10. How Do You Measure a Year or Ten?

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. And this is not my beautiful keyboard.

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**Prompt #10: Years**

"How long have you been here?"

A humorless chuckle.

_Long enough for laughter to turn bitter._

_Long enough for a smile to be sad._

_Long enough to be tired of counting._

_Long enough to forget familiar faces._

_Long enough to learn my lesson._

_Long enough to learn the meaning of "desperation."_

_Long enough to sell my soul._

_Long enough to wonder if I'll have anything to return to._

_Long enough to run out of tears._

_Long enough to give up._

_Long enough to give up on giving up._

_Long enough to adapt._

_Long enough to fall in love._

"Too long."


	11. Fatherhood

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. My empty bank account says so.

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**Prompt #11: Red**

He tried not to laugh and berated himself inwardly. _"Damn it, Dustfinger, this is your _daughter! _You're supposed to be enchanted. Awestricken. You're supposed to think she's the most beautiful baby ever born!"_

But the truth was, she was a rather ghastly little creature. Her skin was a strange, splotchy pink. Her features--her bright blue eyes, her round nose, her ears--all seemed a bit too big for her head. And to make matters worse, what little hair she had--sticking up here and there in little tufts, like the first few feathers on a baby bird--was a bright, gingery shade of red.

"She certainly got your hair," Roxane said, smiling up at him.

He couldn't help but chuckle. "So I noticed," he said. "Poor thing."

"Well, at least she got _my_ nose."

He frowned at her. "What's wrong with my nose?"

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**A/N: **Something cute and fluffy, for a change. Believe me, I _tried_ to insert something poignant and/or insightful at the end, but the drabble just wouldn't have it. And for the record, I don't know what on earth is wrong with Roxane. I think he has an adorable nose. 


	12. Fire Suits You

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. I'm not even German.

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**Prompt #12: Orange**

"You know... fire suits you," he said, tilting his head and admiring the warm glow upon her skin, the dancing flames reflected in her dark eyes.

"Really?" she asked with a small grin, raising a somewhat suspicious eyebrow.

He nodded as he sat beside her. "You're beautiful in any light," he mused, gazing into the flames. "But the fire... The fire brings out all of your best qualities."

"And what are those?" she questioned, an edge of challenge to her voice.

"Your pride... Your strength..." He glanced up from the flames. "Your passion."

She gazed at him thoughtfully, for a moment. "You're coming on to me, aren't you?"

He sighed. "Yes, he admitted. "How am I doing?"

"Not bad," she muttered, smiling. "Not bad."


	13. The Truth in Lies

**Disclaimer: **Dustfinger and the Inkheart Trilogy are the property of Cornelia Funke. I am not Cornelia Funke. Nor did I shoot the sheriff. _Or _the deputy.

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**Prompt #13: Yellow**

He watched as the bright yellow ribbon fell at his feet, fluttering like the wings of one of the little birds of which she was so very fond.

He stared at it, lying discarded in the dirt, as her words rang in his ears.

_I hate you._

There were times she hadn't spoken to him for days. There were times she had screamed at him; times she had hit him; times she had refused to even look at him.

She'd been angry. She had always been angry.

But she'd never said she _hated_ him before.

"She doesn't mean it, you know," Roxane said quietly as he bent to pick up the ribbon.

"You've never lied to me before, Roxane," he said. "Don't start now."


End file.
